


Compassion in the Dark

by Fluterbev



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-05-01
Updated: 2003-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-24 20:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluterbev/pseuds/Fluterbev
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair on the edge of despair, and Jim to the rescue, in a strange alien world that the canon characters have found themselves mysteriously transported into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compassion in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> This is the start of a long unfinished sci-fi WIP I have on my hard drive. It is an AU I started to write around 2002/2003, before I ever saw _The Sentinel_ , having at that stage only read fanfic for the series. It is highly unlikely I will ever finish it. The first 1000 words or so were previously posted as a snippet to Sentinel Thursday in April 2004, as well as to the Sentinel Angst list at around the same time. This is an extended version which I posted at my fic journal by request in August 2007, and is now posted here at AO3 for the sake of completeness.
> 
> The story as it stands has no slash elements, so was originally listed as 'gen', but I always envisaged it becoming slash so that is what I have selected as the category on Ao3.

 

The barn was pitch black inside, but Jim didn’t need light to find what he was looking for.

He could hear the shivers and the panting, terrified breaths, and smell the rank odors of sweat, blood and fear of the filthy creature inside. Jim made his way cautiously to the far corner, where his uncanny night vision made out the huddled form, trying its best to become one with the dark.

When he was close enough to touch, Jim crouched down. So as not to startle the newcomer, he had made no secret of his approach. The pitiful thing was crouched down, huddled in on himself, partly underneath the wooden platform where farm implements were stored.

Jim resisted the urge to reach out, but instead spoke in a quiet voice, trying to be as unthreatening as he could. “Hey, Chief. You can’t be very comfortable like that. What say you come out of there and get warm?”

The man didn’t respond, except to pull in on himself even more. This close, Jim could see that under the dirt and rags of clothing he was wearing, his arms and legs were covered in bruises and cuts, his face entirely hidden by the long matted hair which fell forward from his bowed head.

Silently cursing the godforsaken world in which he was forced to live, Jim took stock of the situation. That this man had been abused beyond bearing was a given. Simon had said as much when he and Joel had come back from the market with human cargo along with the sacks of grain they had gone to buy. Simon, as always, had been sure of his decision. “It was sick, Jim. They were parading him, using a whip to keep him moving. God knows how long he’d been at it. He’s exhausted.”

And because of his obvious injuries and exhaustion, they had been careless, thinking him unable to move. But as Joel had lifted him bodily from the trailer, a surge of adrenaline had spurred the newcomer on to fight. Joel had lost his hold on him - the man’s injuries meaning that the big, gentle man had been holding him carefully in any case - and he had won free, clutching a knife which had been underneath the sacks against which he had been laying.

Then he had run. And they had let him, knowing he could not go far. And that in any case, Jim would be able to find him. They all knew that he could find anything, anyone, anywhere on the farm.

It was both his gift, and his curse.

And so here he was, crouching in the straw in the darkness, able to see when the lack of light should have made it impossible; able to smell not only the smells of byre and barn, but the fear underneath the hapless man’s body odor. Able to hear the rush of blood through veins, sped by a terror-driven heartbeat.

Casting aside his distracting reflection on why these things were possible, Jim determinedly focused on the matter in hand. It was enough to know that this man was afraid and injured. He did not have the leisure at this moment to contemplate the span of that knowledge, or why he knew those things so intimately.

Again, he spoke softly. “Come on Chief. I know you’re scared, but it’s cold out here, and you’re hurting. I know you have no reason to believe me, but I promise you can trust me. No one’s going to do you any harm.”

He heard the little catch of breath the man made as he listened. Slowly the man’s head rose, and his eyes, all-pupil in the darkness, darker still with anguish, turned towards Jim. The stranger’s hand moved slowly, and he shifted the knife, concealed until that moment, to rest on his opposite wrist. His eyes closed, a look of such pain in his face that Jim took a shocked breath, anticipating his intention. A second before the man could move the knife to cut himself deeply, Jim spoke again. “You don’t want to do that, Chief, not now. This is a safe place. It really is. And I’ve been exactly where you are now, in the past. But a while ago, I was brought here, and now I have my dignity back.”

The man’s eyes snapped open, and the naked despair on his face made Jim believe for a moment that nothing other than physical force would prevent him from attempting to take his own life. But the newcomer paused a moment, nevertheless; the knife not moving.

And a hoarse whisper sounded out of the darkness. “I’m so tired.”

Jim let go the breath he had been holding, in relief. If the man was talking, there was hope that he was getting through. “Then rest, Chief. Come with me, and rest,” he said simply. Jim held out his hand, touching the man for the first time, laying his fingers on the hand holding the knife. His touch was light, but in a heartbeat he could have disarmed the man if he tried to cut himself or Jim, able to anticipate the movement in the minutest play of muscle and tendon under skin. He fervently hoped he wouldn’t have to.

He didn’t. The man’s hand opened, the knife falling to the dirt floor. Jim’s grip remained gentle, taking the now empty, icy-cold hand in his own. “Come on, Chief.” he said, pulling gently. “Come on.”

Gradually, in slow increments, the man moved towards him, allowing himself to be maneuvered to Jim’s side. Then, once he was all the way out, Jim hoisted an arm around him and stood, bringing the man with him. Under the rags he could feel how thin his shivering frame was, and how cold.

Supporting most of his charge’s weight as he guided his stumbling steps outside again, he spoke quietly to Joel who had been waiting outside the barn. “Get things ready up at the house. I’ll need hot water for a bath, clean clothes, bandages. You know the drill.”

Joel nodded, but before he left, he shucked off his cloak and placed it around the young man’s shoulders, naked pity on his face. Jim held the man closer as he wrapped it around him, trying to warm him up as they moved along. “Not far now,” he said quietly, encouraging. “It’s all over now.”

At last they reached the house. Jim warned off the hands that would have helped with a brief shake of his head and, understanding, they backed off. The trust that the newcomer had shown in Jim was fragile in its infancy, and no one wanted to jeopardize it.

Jim had worried that the arduous process of cleaning up the new arrival and tending his injuries would be resisted. But sheer exhaustion, both physical and emotional, had taken its toll, and the young man remained passive and docile throughout the bath and subsequent examination and dressing of wounds. He was thin, Jim saw, and not a tall man, and so Jim managed the whole thing on his own, anxious not to distress him by introducing others at this sensitive time.

As the young man leant backwards in the bath, clean water rinsing the soap out of his hair, Jim gently ran a finger over his beard. “Are you attached to this, Chief?” Something moved behind the young man’s eyes, and not meeting Jim’s gaze he shook his head. So taking that as permission, Jim carefully shaved it off.

Jim acted as the farmstead’s medic, his hands incredibly sensitive for such a big man. Sensitive, in fact, beyond belief - he was able to detect bruising and trauma simply by feeling minute changes in skin temperature and texture, by listening to inner workings of the body, by seeing what others could not see. He used all his skills now to diagnose and treat his new patient, speaking gently all the time so his charge would know that he was safe.

At last the wounds were dressed, and Jim allowed Megan to come in for the first time and place a mug of broth in the young man’s trembling hands. Jim was heartened when his charge looked up briefly, a ghost of a smile flickering across his features. He shyly mouthed “Thank you,” too quietly for Megan to hear, but she read his meaning and smiled gently back at him.

Jim, standing across the room, heard every word.

The stranger managed to drink a little of the broth, and some water, then his head nodded. Without a word Jim lifted him, the man a feather-weight in his arms, and carried him to the small bedroom off from the kitchen. There he deposited him gently on the bed, tucking clean linens around him.

Jim was about to leave the bedside when an emaciated hand reached out to him, grabbing him with surprising strength by the wrist, and he looked down into panic-filled eyes. He crouched by the bedside and took the hand in his own. “It’s all right, Chief.” he said. “It’s all right. You’re safe.” The dark blue eyes holding his own filled with painful emotion, then silently overflowed. Jim held his hand, whispering quiet reassurance, until at last exhaustion replaced anxiety and the young man fell blessedly asleep.

Now the dirt had been washed off and the heavy beard removed, Jim could see the youthfulness in the newcomer’s bruised features and, feeling strangely protective, he stroked the hair back from the sleeping stranger’s brow, oddly reluctant to leave his side. The man was young, but a man nevertheless, not a child. He would, Jim surmised, have been a youth when he was taken, if the story this one had to tell was the same as Jim’s own.

Finally, once he was satisfied that his charge was sleeping soundly, Jim relinquished his post and went to talk to his companions.

Joel immediately cornered Jim. “How is he?”

Jim took a breath. “His injuries will heal. Mostly, he’s exhausted and malnourished.”

Simon came over. “Poor kid. What did they do to him, Jim? Other than what we saw?” Simon knew, as did they all, that Jim’s exceptional gifts would have allowed him to interpret their guest’s past from scars that only he could perceive.

Jim met his eyes grimly. “What they always do.” He glanced around, noting the looks of remembered horror his friends wore.

Simon just nodded, his expression grim. Slavery was brutal at best, and young men such as the one they had rescued were often abused in the most appalling ways, the aim being to break spirits and force obedience. Those who put up the most resistance to their captivity tended to suffer unimaginable physical and psychological torment.

Not unimaginable to Jim, however. Or Joel, or Megan, or Simon. They and others at the farmstead that had become their haven had lived it.

Megan, wiping her hands, came to join them as they sat at the table. “Has he been here as long as us?”

“Yeah.” Jim’s reply showed his certainty. At Simon’s questioning glance, he added “He has a lot of old scars under the new injuries. His time here hasn’t been easy, especially early on.” He swallowed, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “And he has a healed runaway’s brand.”

“Shit.” Joel’s emphatic curse echoed the reaction of all of them. Runaways were branded so that for the rest of their lives in captivity they could be identified as a flight risk. The newcomer among them would be forever in danger of being picked up by the authorities and detained, despite whoever owned him.

Jim rubbed his eyes, a headache building. At a gentle touch he looked up into Megan’s worried face. “I’m all right,” he said to her unasked question.

She nodded, her faint smile not reaching her eyes. This was hard on all of them, bringing back memories they preferred not to dwell on. And, due to the last revelation, harder on some than others. “Get some sleep,” she said. “I’ll stay with him a while.”

He almost acquiesced. But a sudden memory of the despair and desperate trust on the face of the young man, the kid, really, rose up in his mind and he shook his head. “I’ll do it. I think it would be better if he woke to a familiar face.”

 

~oO0Oo~

Sitting by the kid’s bed later, Jim absently rubbed the long-healed brand on his own upper arm through his shirt. He knew, as none of the others could really know, what they did to runaways, and the non-visible old injuries he had detected on this young man had confirmed it. The punishment suffered by men like this one and Jim himself, who dared to try and escape captivity, ran the entire gamut from beatings to violent rape. That the youngster was still halfway sane was a testament to his resilience.

Jim dozed a while, then woke suddenly. For a moment, he was not sure what had woken him, then realized that the heartbeat of the man in the bed had speeded up. Looking over he caught a glimpse of wide panicked eyes, and leaned forward quickly. “Shh, shh, its alright Chief, its alright. You’re safe. No-one is going to hurt you.”

The young man was making a wordless noise of distress, his eyes flickering around. Jim abruptly realized what was wrong. “Shit!” The room was in darkness, which was fine for Jim and his exceptional vision, but not for someone who was waking from a nightmare, someone who still did not believe he was safe. “Hold on, I’ll light a candle.” Jim hurried to do just that, lighting a taper in the fireplace from the hot ashes.

Finally he brought the light to the bedside. The young man was clutching the blanket against him, taking shallow panting breaths. “Hey,” said Jim, “Remember me? It’s all right.”

Gradually, the young man calmed down, and Jim’s hand reached out to him, stopping short of touching. “Are you in pain? Thirsty? Do you need anything?”

After a moment, during which the man didn’t take his eyes from Jim’s face, he asked hoarsely “Are you my master?”

Jim shook his head. “No. No. I’m like you. I was a prisoner.”

“A slave,”

Jim shook his head emphatically. “No one’s slave. And neither are you. Not anymore.”

When the young man didn’t answer, instead choosing to look at him with distrust in his eyes, Jim said “Maybe we should start again. My name is Jim Ellison. I was captured four years ago. I was a prisoner for two years, until I was rescued by Ruarne, the owner of this farm. He bought me, brought me here.” He leaned forward. “Ruarne is a good man. He is opposed to slavery.”

“But he owns you.” The youngster swallowed. “He owns me.”

Jim shook his head. “Strictly speaking, and according to all the laws that exist in this place, you’re right. But in actuality, Ruarne owns no-one. To him, the concept simply has no meaning. But he does buy prisoners, whenever he can. All of us here used to be captives. Ruarne rescued us, and gave us a chance to live our lives under his protection.”

He looked at the young man’s puzzled expression, then abruptly changed tack. “What is your name?”

The stare he got back was direct, challenging. This one hadn’t broken, despite all his ill treatment. “Blair Sandburg,” he answered, a slight tremor marring his voice. So slight that only Jim would have noticed it.

For a slave to use their real name was a serious offence, one that could result in a severe beating. That Blair had volunteered it demonstrated either his trust in Jim or his recklessness. Jim grinned at the spirit still existing in this downtrodden individual. “Blair. Glad to meet you.” He held out his hand, and Blair looked at it quizzically a moment. Then cautiously he raised his own to clasp it. Jim was sure that it had been years since anyone had offered to shake his hand.

 

~oO0Oo~

Blair slept fitfully for the rest of the night, and throughout most of the next morning. Finally lying wakeful and sore from his wounds towards mid-day, alone in the bed in the small tidy room, he listened to the noises coming through the slightly open door. The quiet rattling sounds of pots and pans, and the aroma of cooking, indicated that a kitchen was probably on the other side. Several voices could be heard speaking quietly, and he thought he recognized some of them from last night.

He took in a breath and held it, letting it out slowly as he tried to process what had happened. He had been put up for sale yet again and, although he had definitely not been sorry to leave his previous brutal master, there had always been the likelihood that he would be sold to someone worse.

Once he had been delivered to the slave warehouse, the real nightmare had started. His status as a branded runaway meant that the auctioneers had treated him worse than an animal, chaining him overnight in a cold, foul smelling cell, without food or water.

Then, while he was on the auction block, a prospective buyer had protested that he looked weak and underfed, and had insisted that the auctioneers prove otherwise. He had been whipped and made to run, jog, keep moving to prove he had stamina, all the while hobbled in chains. His humiliating and painful ordeal had extended for hours.

He had been barely aware of what had happened next, only realizing that he had finally been bought when he had woken either from sleep or unconsciousness in the back of a farm wagon. Strangely, his chains had been removed, and he had been wrapped in a blanket that smelled strongly of horse.

Groping around under the sacks against which he had lain, he had grasped the handle of a knife in a pile of tools and farm implements. Heart pounding with adrenaline and fear, he had waited his chance.

The next thing he remembered was crouching in the dark, and a soft voice talking to him. A kind voice. No-one had spoken to him like that in a very long time, and the lost soul in him had responded, needing so much to believe in kindness, to believe that the compassion he was being offered was not a lie. Because he knew suddenly and very clearly that if he could never again believe those things, that his life might as well be over.

Hearing a longed-for promise of safety in the man’s voice, something in him had broken, and he had put himself blindly in the care of a stranger. He, Blair Sandburg, who had learned a long time ago never to trust anyone, ever again. He had passively allowed himself to be bathed, shorn and tended, vulnerable in the hands of another, numbly watching the whole thing as if he stood outside himself, an observer. And finally he had fallen asleep, trusting the man, Jim, to keep him safe.

Lying in the comfortable bed, listening to the homely sounds creeping in from the partly open door, Blair could almost believe he was indeed safe, that the nightmare was over. He shifted uncomfortably. His bladder was full - during his night time wakings he vaguely remembered Jim urging him to drink water - and so he levered himself painfully to a sitting position, swinging his legs off the bed.

A wave of dizziness assailed him, and he paused in his movement. Abruptly, the door opened and he became aware of a figure moving swiftly towards him. A big figure.

Suddenly he was back in nightmare, and he scrambled away backwards across the bed, only to fall off the far side and heavily onto the floor. As his lacerated back thudded to the ground he cried out and the world went grey for a second.

When he came to, he was lying on his side on the bed, and focusing on the concerned face of the man beside him, he recognized Jim.

Jim smiled down at him, but the smile looked tired, strained. “Hey, Chief,” the man said. “You should have called me.”

Blair’s need overcame any apprehension he might otherwise have felt. “Bathroom?” he suggested weakly.

Jim nodded. “No problem. Just try not to do any more headers.” Jim helped him to sit up and gave him a chamber pot, turning his back while Blair used it.

Once he was tucked up again in the bed, Jim asked “Are you in pain, Blair?”

“It’s not bad,” Blair lied; and in fact he had been hurt worse in the past; much worse. Jim seemed to understand, and didn’t pressure him. Instead he carefully checked Blair’s bandages. Seeming satisfied he left for a while, and Blair’s awareness drifted, the quiet voices and muted kitchen clatter coming through the partially open doorway lulling him into a half-awake, half-asleep state.

He came back to awareness with a jolt, realizing that time had passed and he was no longer alone. Jim sat beside him in a well-worn armchair, his head lolling on his breast, quiet snores filling the tiny room. Still quiescent, and strangely comforted by the other man’s presence, Blair took the opportunity to study his rescuer.

Jim’s tall frame sat uncomfortably in the chair, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. In sleep, he appeared younger somehow, the lines on his face smoothed out in relaxation. If he was a slave he was a well-fed one. He was well built, muscular with no hint of fat. His skin glowed with the health imparted by outdoor work. There were faint scars on Jim’s arms, tracks of white through the tan, and following the path of one with his eyes, Blair was startled to see the bottom edge of what looked like a brand, partially revealed beneath the short sleeve of his shirt.

His breath caught, and at the same moment he realized the snores had stopped. Lifting his gaze from the brand, if that’s what it was, he found pale blue eyes watching him. Wordlessly, Jim raised his other arm, and Blair’s eyes followed the movement as he lifted the sleeve revealing the brand completely. A runaway’s brand – the twin of his own.

Shocked, Blair snapped his gaze back to meet Jim’s. They exchanged silent communication for an endless moment, sharing in their voiceless discourse a gamut of emotions; fear, pain, humiliation, anger... and above it all, compassion and sorrow, each for the other. In this knowledge, in each man’s memory of shared torment, they were bound in understanding.

At last Jim rose, and gently laid a hand on Blair’s head for a moment. Blair closed his eyes, accepting the touch like a benediction. The hand withdrew, and he heard Jim leave the room.

Blair drifted again afterwards, his dreams chaotic, but not quite nightmares. Then, at dusk, he awoke clear-headed and restless. His stomach growled, responding to the smells emanating from the doorway. The pain from his wounds was not so bad if he did not dwell on it, so he didn’t. He had had plenty of practice.

Rising from the bed, he was satisfied to note that his earlier dizziness had passed. He stretched cautiously, feeling protest from his abused muscles, but it felt good at the same time. Behind him the door opened, and he turned expecting Jim; but it was the woman he had seen yesterday. Involuntarily his hands wrapped themselves around his torso. The woman appeared not to notice his self-protective gesture. Instead she smiled at him warmly. “Hello Blair. I’m Megan. Would you like me to bring you some water, so you can wash?”

“Where’s Jim?” The demanding tone in Blair’s voice masked his sudden nervousness.

Megan affected not to notice his belligerence. “He’s sleeping. He’s worn out after being up all night.” Her smile faded a little, her brows crooked in what might have been pity. “I’ll fetch you the water, and we’ve found some clothes for you that might fit for now. Dinner is nearly ready – I’m sure you’re hungry.”

Blair didn’t answer, his demeanor unfriendly in an attempt to mask his nervousness. He watched as Megan left the room. After a moment she returned with some of the promised items, exiting again to fetch the rest. Blair didn’t move until she had left the room the second time, closing the door behind her.

Finally he went to look at what she had brought. As well as hot water and towels, he was astonished to note that a razor had been laid out for him. Testing the edge on his finger, he was startled to see blood welling up – the thing was sharp. He almost dropped it in surprise. Slaves were never allowed sharp objects – shaving, if it was done at all, was done with a blunt edged knife, under the supervision of a slave-master; and yet these people had left him alone with a blade.

It was such a familiar, yet unfamiliar thing. So many years since he had been in control of anything so mundane as ridding himself of beard growth. His breath caught suddenly, and he found himself gasping for air, his hands shaking. It was some time before he regained control sufficiently to trust himself to actually use the razor, and even then his unsteadiness resulted in some small nicks.

It was with some small sense of achievement, therefore, that he made himself presentable, washing in the warm water (with _real_ soap), and putting on the clothes that Megan had brought him. They were, predictably, too large. He was not an abnormally tiny man, but he was thin, and although he could not clearly remember what the other men he had seen at the farm looked like, he had a fleeting impression that they were big, like Jim; tall and muscular. He absently wondered who the borrowed items belonged to. The outfit included boots, nearer to his own size than the rest of the clothes, and he sat on the bed to put them on.

Once dressed, he wasn’t sure what to do, so he stayed where he was, listening to the sounds on the other side of the door, and vainly trying to comb some of the tangles out of his hair. The clatter of pots was quieter now, as though the meal was ready to be served, and the voices he heard were muted. He could not make out any words, but it was clear that they belonged to two or three men, as well as a woman’s voice he identified as Megan’s.

A knock at the door disturbed his reverie, and for a moment the sound had no relevance for him – privacy for a slave was unheard of. Then the door opened, and a tall, blue-skinned being entered the room. An imposing figure.

Blair did not register the concerned expression on the creature’s face, knowing only from a dim memory of pain and exhaustion that this was his new master, Ruarne, the slave owner who’s farm this was, that Jim had told him about. With a speed born of four long years of conditioning, Blair slid off the bed and fell to his knees, his forehead resting on his crossed arms in obeisance. The posture put renewed strain on his abused back, but nothing would have induced him to change position, least of all his own discomfort.

Nothing, that is, except for Jim, who chose that moment to reappear. “No, no. Jesus, Chief, get up. You don’t have to do this. Get up. Come on, Blair.” Blair allowed himself to be pulled upright and maneuvered, until he was sitting once again on the edge of the bed, although he kept his eyes carefully lowered.

A hand under his chin forced his head up to see Jim’s earnest expression, inches from his own. “You don’t kneel here, Blair, not to Ruarne or anyone. Here you are not a slave. I meant what I told you last night.”

Confused, and suddenly very scared, Blair shook his head. The rules of this place were not the rules he had learned. Sharp blades given to slaves, masters who knocked before invading a slave’s privacy and to whom you did not kneel – and above it all, kindness and care. This wasn’t right, wasn’t the way he knew. And at the same time too much like the way he had left behind.

Jim seemed somehow to sense his fear and confusion, and simply wrapped his strong arms around Blair and held on until his panic stilled. Blair heard him address the master. “Give me a minute, here; please, Ruarne.” The sound of the door closing indicated that they had been left alone.

They stayed where they were until Blair’s shudders lessened, and even then Jim did not completely let Blair go.

“I’m sorry ….” Blair began.

But Jim shushed him. “No. Not sorry. Don’t be sorry. You haven’t done anything wrong, Chief.”

“I’m scared.” Blair had no idea why he made the admission. You should never show your weakness, your vulnerability.

“I know. Believe me, I know. I was too, when I first came here. Sometimes I still am. But not of Ruarne. He’s one of the good guys.”

“I don’t know what to do. It’s all wrong….”

“Blair, trust me. No one will hurt you here, not for kneeling, or not kneeling, or for meeting Ruarne’s eyes, or for speaking without permission, or any of the other god damned barbaric things you’ve been taught are normal. The only rule here is that we work together, and respect each other. On the farm we are safe. It’s as close to home as you can get in this godforsaken place. It really is a sanctuary.”

Blair sagged in Jim’s grip, his exhaustion again catching up with him. “Please, I can’t…” his eyes strayed to the door, “I don’t want to ….”

Jim gripped his shoulders “You don’t want to go out there, face Ruarne or any one else?” He nodded his understanding. “Then don’t. Stay in here, rest. I’ll bring you some food. Once you’ve eaten, and rested some more, we’ll see where we are then. There’s no hurry, Chief. We do this at your pace.”

Jim helped Blair lie back on the bed, and Blair closed his eyes while Jim removed his boots for him. At a gentle touch on his brow, he opened his eyes to Jim’s concerned expression. “You need to eat, Chief. Rest while I get you something. I’ll be straight back.”

Blair nodded, knowing only that he could trust Jim. As for the rest of it - well, he’d have to wait and see.

 


End file.
